‘Let’s go,’ I say to Tom.
He looks as though he’s going to protest, but I pull him out of the doorway before he can. Lucy won’t want us here today. And today, I’m thinking about her.
Tom and I drive home in silence. I assume the quiet is to allow me to process my thoughts about what happened with Lucy, but when we pull up in front of the house and Tom doesn’t get out of the car straight away, I realise I’ve assumed wrong.
‘This was all my fault,’ he says. ‘I’m the one who dropped Harriet.’
‘Nonsense.’ I release my seatbelt and pivot in my seat. ‘It was an accident.’
‘Accidents have been happening for a while,’ he says. ‘My grip strength has been getting worse and worse.’
I roll my eyes. ‘We’re getting older, Tom. Nothing works as well as it used to.’
‘I went to the doctor about it, a couple of months ago.’
I pause. ‘You did?’
‘Dr Paisley ordered some tests and told me I should make an appointment with a specialist. A neurologist. So I did.’
‘You did what? Saw a specialist?’ I’m stunned. How could this have been going on without my knowing? Tom doesn’t have secrets. (Once, when the kids were little, he told them on Christmas Eve that Santa had told him he was going to bring them bikes the next day. ‘I just couldn’t wait to see their little faces,’ he said.)
Tom stares straight ahead, his hands on the wheel at ten and two. ‘I haven’t seen the specialist yet. But I have an appointment tomorrow. It’s with a guy who specialises in motor neuron disease.’
I stare at him.
‘I didn’t want to tell you until I had more information, but . . . after what happened . . . it’s my fault what happened to Harriet. I should never have agreed to hold her.’
My throat is dry. I try to swallow but there’s nothing there. I stare at the side of Tom’s face. His large, craggy face.
‘I’d like you to come with me to my appointment tomorrow.’
‘Of course I’ll come. I wish I had been there for all your appointments.’
‘I know you do,’ he says and he lets go of the steering wheel and lays one hand, palm up, in my lap. We sit like that in the car for nearly an hour, staring at the windscreen.
The next day Tom and I go to the neurologist’s rooms. We enter the waiting room, announce our arrival and take our seats. In the space beside me, a man sits in a wheelchair, head lolling, his chin supported by a white pad, and a purple travel pillow horseshoeing his neck. He is, at a glance, at least ten years younger than Tom. The woman beside him, his wife presumably, flicks through a magazine, glancing up at him every so often and smiling, or leaning forward with a tissue to wipe the corner of his mouth. Even after the lady sees me looking, I’m unable to look away.
‘Tom Goodwin?’ says the doctor.
‘Yes,’ Tom says.
I keep looking at the woman. She gives me a slight frown but then her gaze slithers to Tom and understanding dawns. She gives me a small, almost indistinct nod.
‘Diana? Are you coming?’
‘Oh . . . yes.’ I break my gaze with the woman and Tom and I walk into the room.
I drive home. It is one of only a handful of times I’ve driven while Tom is in the car. Most times have been when he has had too much to drink, but there have been a couple of other times. Once, when we were newly married and on a road trip to visit Tom’s cousin in Bright in the Victorian countryside. Ollie was in the backseat of the car, just a toddler, and Tom was driving far too fast for my liking so I demanded he slow down. Finally he pulled over onto the dusty side of the road, wrenched up the handbrake and said: ‘Fine. If you never want to get there, you drive.’ He could be dreadfully hot-headed, Tom. I took the wheel, and despite Tom’s lack of faith, we did make it there and in good time. He muttered and moaned about it for an hour or so, then calmed down like he always does. By the time we arrived we were chuckling about it. I wonder if, soon, the rest of my memories of Tom will be catalogued like this. Memories of him as a father, memories of him as a grandfather. Memories of fights, memories of joy. All of them memories, because he is gone.
‘When we get home I’ll make enquiries about a second opinion,’ I say, my voice full of authority. And I will get a second opinion, a third one too. We’ll go through the process and exhaust all the avenues. But in the end, Tom will die, somehow I know this. He won’t be in his nineties, he won’t even be in his seventies. He will die and I will have to live.
‘When we get home,’ Tom replies, ‘I want to go to bed.’
We pull to a stop at a red traffic light and I turn to look at him properly. His eyes are shiny, the bottom lid heavy, threatening to spill. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘We’ll go to bed.’
The tears spill as I pull out of the intersection. I leave him to it, his own personal grieving process. He doesn’t need me telling him everything will be okay when we both know it won’t. Instead I give his hand a firm squeeze. My role is clear to me now. I will be the strong one. I’ll be good at this. I am aware of my limitations. I’m not warm, I’m not especially kind. But I can be strong. I can allow Tom to slip away knowing I will be all right. This, I can give him.
At home, Tom goes right upstairs. I do too, but while he heads for the bedroom, I tell him I need a quick shower. In the bathroom I set the shower running and I strip off my clothes and I stand under the stream of water and cry. I cry until I don’t know which is water and which is tears.
I cry until I’m dry.
By the time I get out of the shower, Tom is in bed. At first I think he is asleep, but as soon as I crawl in beside him, his eyes open.
‘How are you going to live without me?’ he says.
We both chuckle, even as a tear slides from the corner of Tom’s eye.
‘I won’t,’ I say.
‘You might have to, Di.’
‘That’s what you think,’ I say, and then he reaches for me and we don’t talk any more.
1971 . . .
When Ollie was four months old, I got a job at the Star Theatre in Yarraville. The Star was unusually opulent for the area and was packed every Saturday night. Unique to the cinema was the pram room, where babies in their prams were lined up and given a number; if a baby started crying, its number was flashed on the screen and its mother would come and collect it. Ollie was one of those babies.
Like Meredith said, I figured out how to get a job and look after Ollie at the same time. I was surprised how good it felt to be able to do that. I wasn’t completely self-sufficient—I didn’t pay rent at Meredith’s and I still slept in her shed—but I started to contribute toward bills and food. I worked Tuesday and Saturday nights to begin with. Tuesdays were busy but Saturdays were nearly always fully booked, all one thousand seats. I roamed between the ticket box and the candy bar as the foyer swelled with people. I’d been to the Star before, as an attendee, but there was a different buzz to working there. I liked it better. I felt like I was behind the scenes of a show, or had a backstage pass to a concert. I saw people I knew from time to time, but they never saw me. I existed in a different world to them. Sometimes they looked directly at me, but they never saw me.
I raced around the busy theatre, directing people in with a flashlight, serving popcorn. Once everyone was seated inside, I’d often go to the pram area and look at the babies, all lined up. Seeing them, it was hard not to think about the babies of the girls at Orchard House. They would have been lined up like this in the hospital nursery before they were taken home by someone else. None of the girls thought they had a choice. I wished I could go back and tell them they did.
During the movie, if I heard a baby cry, I’d try to settle them for a few minutes before I’d run their number up to the screening room to flash over the screen. Nine times out of ten, I did settle them. Ollie always slept, even then my simple, content boy.
I was watching over the babies one night when a young man came out of the cinema twenty minutes after the film started. I
made my way to the candy bar where he was headed.
‘Just a popcorn, please,’ he said.
‘Small, medium or large?’
The young man blinked at me, looking me full in the face. It took me a moment to place him as Tom Goodwin, the plumber who had visited my parents’ house a couple of times. According to my father he was ‘a good worker’. He wasn’t handsome, but he had clear blue eyes, a good crop of hair, a great smile. He was on the shorter side, and he did nothing to conceal his intrigue at finding me working in a cinema candy bar in Yarraville.
‘I know you,’ he said.
‘And I know you. Tom, right?’
He cocked his head. I could actually see the cogs turning.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘I haven’t seen you around for a while,’ he said eventually. I recognised it for what it was: a question. For that exact reason, my first instinct was to be vague in my response. I’ve been busy sprang to my lips as did I was over in Europe for a while. But I forced those words away. Suddenly I understood what Meredith had said about the freedom of having nothing to lose.
‘I went away to have a baby.’
I loved the way Tom didn’t try to conceal his surprise. He blinked, long and slow, and then blinked again. He actually took a step back. It was, I am certain, the fact I admitted it rather than the fact it happened that caused his astonishment.
‘A boy,’ I said. ‘Oliver. He’s over there in that basket.’
‘He’s . . . here?’ To my surprise, Tom walked over to the pram area and peered into Ollie’s basket. ‘This little fella?’ He gazed down at him and his face softened. ‘And . . . your family—’
‘They’re thrilled.’
I laughed, and Tom surprised me by laughing back. He had a great laugh. A full-bodied, hearty laugh that came from the well of his stomach.
‘So how are you supporting yourself then?’
‘I live in a shed in Spotswood, in the backyard of my father’s disgraced cousin. I cook and clean for her. And I’m working here for money.’
His smile slipped away. ‘You’re kidding?’
‘Afraid not. But don’t worry about me, I’m doing just fine. Very well, actually.’
I glanced at the clock. I’d been talking too long. I had to get things cleaned up and organised before intermission. I grabbed a popcorn container and made Tom a large one and handed it to him. ‘That’ll be one dollar,’ I said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of crumpled notes, handing the lot to me without even glancing at them.
‘You’d better get back in there. You’re going to miss the movie.’
He jerked slightly, looking over his shoulder as if he’d forgotten where he was. Then he looked back at me and gave me the best smile I’d ever seen. ‘But what if I miss what’s happening out here?’
37
LUCY
The present . . .
Wakes are always interesting affairs. Anything that mixes family and alcohol usually is. When I arrive at the Half-Moon after Diana’s funeral, Ollie is looking more relaxed with a beer in hand, occasionally even chuckling at something someone has said. The football is on the television in the background, which also provides some normality to the abnormal occasion.
Nettie, too, seems more together than at the funeral. Edie finds her immediately and takes pride of place in her lap, commandeering Nettie’s pink lemonade. I’m glad to see her issues with us haven’t extended to our children. Say what you want about Nettie, but she’s a loving aunt. I have to love her for that.
Patrick has sunk at least half-a-dozen beers since I arrived, a good hour after everyone else, and it has to be said, he’s looking a bit worse for wear. I suppose I can’t blame him. I’d like to throw back a few too, but between chasing the kids around and ordering them to get up from under the tables, there isn’t a lot of time. Harriet and Archie have kicked their shoes off and are scampering around on the floors, where the dirt is forming a paste with the spilled drinks. Soon someone will break a glass, one of the kids will step on it, and we’ll be all headed to the hospital. Actually, it would be a relief to get out of here.
‘Hey,’ I say, finding Ollie at the bar. He has the glassiness of a man a few beers in, and he seems sombre, but then he has just attended his mother’s funeral. ‘Are you okay?’
Apart from the fact that it’s your mum’s funeral, your business is failing and the fact that we’re financially ruined?
‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I was just thinking about how bad my eulogy was.’
‘It wasn’t bad.’
He cocks his head. ‘Come on.’
I put my arms around his waist. ‘Listen. It’s not as if she was there to critique it. Just let it go. It was fine.’
He opens his mouth to respond but we are interrupted by an elderly couple coming to say their goodbyes. At the same time, Harriet comes to tell me that ‘Edie wet her pants and Auntie Nettie wants to know if she has spare undies’.
‘I’ll deal with the undies,’ I say to Ollie.
I follow Harriet through the throng, turning sideways to squeeze past people. Harriet and I come to a clearing on the deck outside where Edie stands naked apart from a pair of gold sandals. Tipsy adults smile. Sweet. Nettie squats next to her, drying her legs with a wad of paper towels. There’s something so maternal about it, it stops me short. I have to remind myself that Edie is my daughter, that I’m her mother.
A chink of spoon against glass steals everyone’s attention, and when I turn around I see Ollie is standing on a chair. I leave Edie with Nettie and dash back. What on earth?
‘Can I have everyone’s attention please?’ he is saying, as I slip through the door.
A hush goes around the room and I feel my insides squeeze tight. This smacks of a drunk idea. Ollie isn’t the type to give impromptu speeches, he is a planner, a practiser, a reader of index cards. I glance around for support, but there is only Nettie, who is still outside dealing with Edie. Patrick is over by the bar.
‘Sorry to steal you away from your drinks and conversations. I just feel that I didn’t quite say everything I wanted to about Mum today.’
One by one, people whisper hushed endings to their conversation and give Ollie their full attention. I grab a glass of champagne from a circling waiter and throw it back.
‘The fact is, Mum wasn’t the warm and fuzziest of people. Actually, she was a pretty hard taskmaster. If there was ever a spider or rodent to kill, guess who we went to? I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t Dad.’
A gentle chorus of laughter rings through the room. It reassures me.
‘As kids, whenever we sat down, Mum would always hand us a bag of donated baby clothes and make us sort them into sizes. We’d complain usually, and she’d tell us that she’d be more than happy to take away our clothes and make us accept donations and then see if that changed our tune.’
At this Ollie’s voice starts to wobble.
‘I remember folding up a tiny white knitted jacket once and putting it on the top of a pile of newborn clothes. Mum noticed it and yanked it out of the pile, saying it was stained. I told her they’d probably still accept it and she said: “It’s not my job to give them what they would accept.”’ Ollie does a pitch-perfect Diana impression. ‘“It’s my job to give them what they deserve.”’
He glances at me, and I nod. Perfect.
‘Mum could be difficult, but that was part of what made her great. And that’s what made her a lifeline for some people.’
‘Come on! Give me a break!’
The voice, coming from the back of the room, over by the bar, is booming and unapologetic. Heads whip around. It isn’t hard to find Patrick, a full head and shoulders above the crowd.
‘Diana wasn’t a “lifeline”,’ he says, ‘she was a life-sucker.’
Ollie looks startled. Like most people, he’s been so caught up in his lovely tribute he didn’t see it coming. I, to
o, am startled. The crowd shifts to look at Patrick. I start toward him, but the room is full and it is like walking through sludge.
‘If we’re honest, we’ll admit that no one is upset that she’s dead, we’ve just come for the free food and booze. And why not?’ Patrick spots me charging toward him through the crowd. ‘Save yourself the trouble, Lucy, I’m done.’ He raises his glass to the crowd. ‘To Diana. May she rot quickly.’
He tips his glass to his mouth and swallows the drink in one mouthful. Then he plants it on the bar and stares back at the crowd, defiant. I glance around for Nettie and find her standing in the corner of the room. A single tear runs down her cheek.
38
LUCY
The past . . .
I snap a photo of Harriet, asleep in her hospital cot. The morning light dapples on her and I feel hyper-aware of the preciousness of it. If things had gone differently a few days ago, she might not be here, and I don’t take this second chance for granted.
‘How is our little angel?’ Ingrid asks from the doorway.
Ingrid has been the primary nurse tending to Harriet. A grandmother, she proudly told me a few days ago, to a little boy named Felix who is about Harriet’s age. It is, perhaps, the reason she’s gone above and beyond for us—even picking me up a latte from her local coffee store on the way in after hearing me tell Ollie I couldn’t stand the hospital coffee. Then again, Ingrid seems the type to go above and beyond with everyone.
I put my phone down. ‘She’s fine. Sleeping.’
‘Do you want me to get a photo of the two of you?’
I think about that for a second. ‘Actually, I would love that.’
I scootch down beside my sleeping daughter and place my head next to hers while Ingrid snaps a picture. The picture is filled with chins and you can see right up my nose and I will cherish it forever.
‘Your mother-in-law phoned a moment ago,’ Ingrid says lightly.
Diana has phoned every day, twice a day. When I didn’t answer she started calling the hospital and checking in with the nurses’ station. She knows Harriet is going to be okay, I made Ollie text her as soon as we knew. I’m still angry with her, but as far as I’m concerned no one deserves to worry about a child for a second longer than they have to.
The Mother-in-Law Page 18
